


Fever

by sensitivebore



Series: Lady Lights [3]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 06:07:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sarah and Elsie, and a couple of colds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fever

Sarah pulls the baking sheet from the blazing oven, shoves it onto the counter. Counts the cakes. She shakes her head to clear it as she gets lost after four or five, counts again. Loses track. She curses under her breath and closes her eyes, rubs the bridge of her nose. She's getting sick, there's no doubt about it; she feels hot and then cold and her body aches and her sinuses feel stuffed and there's a faint soreness in the back of her throat.

" _Damn't_  all."

Elsie bustles through the kitchen busily with an armful of empty trays from the front of the shop. It's nine in the morning and they open at ten and she doesn't even have half of the cakes done, she's been moving in slow motion this morning. Elsie glances at her standing there, staring hazily at the pan, and immediately puts the trays down, grasps her arm, and tows her unceremoniously to their bedroom. Sarah argues the entire way, tries to shout even, but her throat isn't having that.

"What're ye' doing? I've got another dozen fairy cakes to get in the oven, the egg salad ain't mixed yet and — "

Elsie ignores her protests, just pushes until Sarah has no choice but to sit down on the bed. She replies with crisp, no-nonsense orders. "Dress off, corset off, everything off, please."

Despite feeling increasingly worse, Sarah grins, snakes her arms around Elsie's hips, drags her close. "Darlin', I wouldn't argue with that ever, but we've got a shop to run?" Elsie sniffs in disdain.

"You'd be so lucky, Sarah O'Brien. I'd catch your cold and then we'd really be in it." She leans forward, places a gentle kiss against the hot forehead. Frowns, pulls back and feels her face with the back of a cool hand. "Just as I thought, you're burning up. No more arguing, now, out of your clothes and into your nightdress. I haven't all day."

Elsie takes matters into her own hands, unbuttons Sarah's dress, pulls it off of her shoulders, her arms. Sarah, of course, impedes the entire process by trying to kiss her, succeeding several times — not that Elsie tries all that hard to avoid it, really — and in general putting her hands in places that most pointedly do not need to be involved in this.

Her dress comes off, the corset, the underskirt and underwear, the stockings. Sarah sighs, lifts her arms for the soft flannel nightdress, points her toes for the thick knit socks. The hairpins are pulled out, the bow on the end of her braid tightened. She's glad, if she's honest, to slide between the cool sheets and under the warm blankets of their little double bed. Sleep is washing over her now and all she wants to do is close her eyes but she struggles, complains, tries to instruct Elsie on what needs done.

"I'd be jus' fine if you'd not cluck over me like a hen — you need to just mix the egg salad, I've already chopped the eggs — there's batter for cakes in the cool box, all ye' need to do is — " Despite her best efforts, she's drifting off. Elsie rubs her back in a soothing, rhythmic motion and Sarah huffs a sigh that clearly says she is down but not out, and the last thing she remembers before sleep is gathering Elsie's pillow to her, hugging it close.

A hand on her forehead wakes her some hours later and Elsie's soft singing accent is rousing her, encouraging her to sit up. "Sit up for me, let's get some tea and toast into you, lass." She helps her, pushes the extra pillow behind her back, places the tray over her lap. Sarah groans. Sleeping was good, but now the cold has caught her full force and she's snotty and miserable and too hot and too cold and she wants to be in her kitchen, is absolutely sure that Elsie has misplaced or broken or burnt every single thing — despite the fact that Elsie's cooking is coming along fairly well and that she never misplaces things, just puts them where she thinks they ought to be because Sarah's organization system is insane, completely non-intuitive. Elsie has asked her more than once why on earth she stores the sugar in the cool box with the butter and Sarah had found it the most obvious question on earth — you used butter and sugar together in the same recipes all the time, why wouldn't you store them together?

Elsie suppresses a smile, gives her a little stack of clean handkerchiefs. The tea is hot and soothing on her throat and she nibbles the toast while snuffling sadly and interrogating her lover about the business of the day. Elsie removes the tray when she's done and sits on the edge of the bed, smooths her hair back, wipes her face with a damp cloth.

"Did ye' finish the cakes?"

"I did."

"What about the egg salad?"

"All done, selling very nicely today."

"Ye' didn't break anything did you?"

"Not a single thing."

Sarah is mollified for a moment, but then she bursts into pitiful tears. "Well that's lovely, innit, ye' don't even need me, you're doin' just fine it seems." She scrubs at her eyes and flops over onto her side, away from her, stares at the wall resentfully.

Elsie laughs a little, leans over Sarah, presses kisses to her shoulder, the side of her face. "Hardly that, Sarah." She calculates quickly in her mind — how much to exaggerate to reassure her while not making her actually worry. "I'm carrying on out there, I suppose, but just barely. I suppose I won't fall apart but I can't say I'm enjoying it a single bit." Her fingers smooth the material over the sloped shoulder, affectionately finger the lace of the neckline. "Sleep, turnip, so you can be well soon."

A few days pass and Sarah mends, is back on her feet and crashing around the kitchen, shouting that someone — someone she won't name — has lost her bread knife and who on earth puts the sugar in the cupboard when it goes with the butter and when Elsie trudges through to get a fresh box of herb tea, she catches her up in a warm embrace.

"Stay out of my utensils drawer. But — I love ye'."

Elsie narrows her eyes, writhes away from the hug sulkily. Tries to keep back a cough but it's there, congested and weak, and she flails in anger. Sarah puts down the icing funnel she's holding, wipes her hands, and takes the box of tea away from her. Wraps a strong hand around a small wrist and hauls her toward the bedroom.

"I'm fine, let go, I have to see to the till. I can't have you roaring at our customers and scaring them half out of their wits because they don't have the proper change. I'm fine, I tell you."

She sneezes. Sneezes again.


End file.
